by Don Berry
There were some strangers on the Missouri in spring '33; strange people, and even stranger motives.
One of these was a fiery, irascible, toothless German, traveling under the name Baron Braunsberg. This was Maximilian, Prince of Wied-Neuwied. The Prince was also a major general in the Prussian Army (against Napoleon), recipient of the Iron Cross, and gentleman scientist. His military exploits were more or less involuntary; the Napoleonic Wars gave the Prussian nobleman no choice in the matter. At heart he was an ethnologist, (in spite of the fact that the field did not then exist). Maximilian was of a now-defunct breed, the gentleman amateur of science. He had a reasonable background in geology, botany, and zoology—a1l of which were useful—but his main interest was in the Indians of the Americas. He had made a study of South American indigenes—it had gained him a considérable reputation—and was now embarking on a similar project with the Indians of North America.
He had two traveling companions. Charles Bodmer, an artist who was to do illustrative matter for Maxirnilian’s book (and whose paintings are frequently used today for the same purpose), and one Dreidoppel, manservant. (It was Maximilian’s pleasure to bellow angrily for Herr Dreidoppel on any occasion. Owing to the Prince’s toothless condition this was a very interesting bellow. He bellowed also at Mr. Bodmer, but the effect was apparently not so impressive.)
Maximilian fell in with the King of the Missouri, who was in St. Louis during the winter. The Company steamboat Yellowstone got away from St. Louis on April 10 with Maximilian and entourage aboard, and the Prince of Wied-Neuwied entered Indian country under the auspices of Kenneth McKenzie.
McKenzie got the Prussian; Sublette & Campbell, too, had their nobleman, and several others. Theirs was William Drummond Stewart, heir to the barony of Grandtully; a Scotsman, soldier (ex), sportsman and hunter, and occasional novelist of the American West he was about to enter. Stewart, to jump ahead a bit, was highly regarded by the mountain men with whom he lived in succeeding years; and their respect is some measure of the man. He is described as being on "a trip of pleasure" an adventure, an outing. He did it up brown and had a enormously good time at it. (Stewart’s mountain activities are admirably detailed in Bernard DeVoto’s Across the Wide Missouri.)
At the Lexington camp preparatory to moving out, Campbell also picked up Benjamin Harrison, physician and alcoholic. Harrison was going—or being sent—to the mountains in hopes of being cured of the latter. He was the son of William Henry Harrison, presently retired but soon to become President of the United States.
The last of the occasionals was Edmund Christy of St. Louis. Information is wanting on this man; about all we know is that he was about to invest in KMF to the tune of $6,600 and become a full partner.
Altogether the overland party consisted of about fifty men and the cavalcade of merchandise—loaded mules. Cattle and sheep—a herd of twenty—were driven with the caravan to provide food until they reached butfalo country. They got off early in May; and Sublette started upriver with his keelboat a little later.
II
Rendezvous 1833: "Satumalia among the mountains," says the literary Mr. Irving; "powerful drunk," says Joe Meek.
Rendezvous is now a thoroughly established institution in the mountains, and we might pause briefly to survey the changes that have taken place in the structure of the fur trade since the opening of this narrative.
The revolution begun by the first Ashley-Henry expeditions " has now come nearly full circle. Their great innovation—taking brigades of white trappers, rather than merely trading with Indians—turns out, on close inspection, to have produced a little less change in the trade than it is given credit for.
The mainstay of the companies is, by now, the free trapper; independent, allied only loosely (and through debt) with any particular company, living his own life in the mountains. These men would, from year to year, travel in fairly small bands and sometimes even alone, like Bill Williams. Their trapping route for a fall and spring season might take them a round-trip distance of two thousand miles or so, but by rendezvous time they would always be back in western Wyoming or eastern Idaho for Sublette’s watered-down alcohol and their two-week spree. For this two weeks there would be coffee and sugar, flour, salt, seasonings—all the amenities. The rest of the year it was meat and water.
They were, in fact, Indians, and this is the point I want to make. The trade has, in the run of this narrative, nearly returned to the state in which we found it: trading at posts from the Indians. The major difference now is that some of the Indians had been born with white skins. And the post from which the trade was carried on was semiportable: the rendezvous.
The free trappers adopted everything about Indian life: dress, morals, attitudes, skills, language frequently, and religion fairly often. And along with the benefits of the Indian good life they also took over some of the disadvantages, the principal of these being the fact that they were thoroughly exploited as economic resources by the whites. (Whites in this particular case being defined as those who still owed their loyalties to the civilized centers: the McKenzies and Sublettes and Chouteaus of the trade.)
Most of the men of this narrative whose names are familiar—Fitzpatrick, Bridger, Carson, Bill Williams—are famous not as trappers but as guides in the years after the collapse of the trade. Piloting immigrant trains to Oregon, leading military reconnaissances and war parties and exploratory teams—steering the civilized through country only the trappers knew. This, traditionally, is the Indian function, and in the narratives of these later journeys we find our quondam mountain men described ink terms usually reserved for Indians. Taciturn, dispassionate, unemotional—there was always a qualitative difference between the guides and the men they guided.
The characterization is clichéd and inaccurate, of course. In modern times the ubiquitous vacant grin of the American has given us the reputation in large parts ofthe world of being somewhat loose-witted. We flatter ourselves that such is not the case, and we may even be right. But the international personality of America is that of our unfailing goodfellowhood, tinged with feeble-mindedness; and largely this has come about through our purely ritualistic habit of grinning foolishly at one another when there is nothing to smile about. Our traditional characterization of the stony-faced Indian is based on the same kind of evidence. The lack of emotion is, of course, purely fiction. But it was derived from the fact that this was one of the social graces of many American Indian tribes. The expressionless mask was the trading, face, the politic face, the face-with-strangers. And this was quickly assumed by many of the free trappers, along with the other accouterments of Indian life.
The great accomplishment and pride of the mountain man was in being a better Indian than the Indians; a better tracker, hunter, woodsman, warrior—everything. The caption on a popular cartoon of the day—showing two mountain men—was "I tuk ye fur a Injun." This was, in fact, the highest compliment that could be paid, and any greenhorn who came up with it on first meeting was sure to be in the good graces of that trapper from then on.
What the innovation of Ashley and Henry finally produced was, in effect, a— new tribe in the West. And through the medium of rendezvous, these new men were dealt with as were the other tribes; and as the Indians had been dealt with before the introduction of white trappers into the country.
The men of the time who were tracking down legends of white Indians would have done well to be at rendezvous come summer; that’s where they were.
***
The companies were congregated around the mouth of Horse Creek when Bonneville and Wyeth pulled in from the north. Bonneville stopped at his Fort Nonsense (about five miles above Horse Creek) while Wyeth and the RMF brigades moved about ten miles downriver. American Fur—Drips—stayed put.
The Company had sent its supply outfit again this year by Lucien Fontenelle; and again he had been beaten, but this time only by a few days. (From the rendezvous Fontenelle wrote miserably to his boss Chouteau: "We have always been too late a
nd our opponents . . . make a great boast of it.")
While Bob Campbell’s train was still en route, a few miles above the Laramie, Old Frapp and two other RMF men had ridden out to meet it. They camped together for a couple of days while Campbell and Fraeb negotiated in advance for the Sublette & Campbell goods. Fraeb took, for RMF, everything but a couple of mules and ten barrels or "whiskey." A little later, Tom Fitzpatrick rode out to deliver RMF’s catch for the year. For some reason, the major business between Sublette & Campbell and RMF was negotiated this year before Campbell even reached rendezvous.
Major excitement this year came from a rabid wolf—or wolves—prowling, the neighborhood. (Wyeth thought there was only one, because when one camp was attacked, the others were not.)
Nine men were bitten at the Company encampment, and three from RMF. For several nights one or the other of the camps would be wakened by the maddened bellowing of frightened animals or the screams of a bitten man.
A Company chronicler relates the eerie disintegration of one of the victims, who constantly asked if they thought he could go mad. When a bull that had been attacked began to bellow constantly, the man became paralyzed with fear and panic. According to report, he developed an inordinate fear of water, and had to be carried across streams rolled up in a blanket (which sounds rather as though the writer were taking the name "hydrophobia" somewhat too literally).
(Several of the wolf-bitten died, by report—but this can’t be established. The episode of the attack itself became one of the stories of the trade, and it would be recorded they had died whether it happened or not. At least two deaths seem well documented.)
Joe Meek, of course, was not bitten. He was powerful drunk af the time, though, and would have been easy prey, lying insensible in his blanket roll. Captain Stewart said as much to him later, and Joe cheerfully agreed. However, he figured his alcohol content was high enough that it would either have killed the wolf or cured him; didn’t greatly matter which.
Competition for men was stiffer this year than it had ever been. Bonneville—by Fontenelle’s report—was paying up to $1,000 a year for trappers; an utterly fantastic sum. He had come into Rendezvous 1833 with only about 22 1/2 packs of`beaver. What with the horses and gear he’d lost through the (winter, the captain was in the hole. But Bonneville, like others since, had a notion he could get rich in California. (His leave from the army was due to expire in three months; but he’d gotten a taste of "wild scenes and wild adventures, and . . . vast and magniticent regions." He wasn’t about to go home broke because of a little thing like the United States Army.)
Wyeth sat down and wrote out his impressions of the rendezvous for his new friend Ermatinger, of HBC:
I found here about 250 whites. A list of the Cos. and their Beaver which I have seen I subjoin. I should have been proud of my countrymen if you could have seen the American Fur Co. or the party of Mr. S. Campbell. For efficiency of goods, men, animals and arms, I do not believe the fur business has afforded a better example of discipline. I have sold my animals and shall make a boat and float down the Yellowstone and Missouri and see what the world is made of there. Mr. Wm Sublette and Mr Campbell have come up the Missouri and established a trading fort at each location of the posts of the Am. Fur. Co. with a view to a strong opposition. Good luck to their quarrels ....
In my opinion you would have been Robbed of your goods and Beaver if you had come here altho it is the west side of the Mts .... I give you this as an honest opinion which you can communicate to the Co. There is here a great majority of Scoundrels. I should much doubt the personal safety of any one from your side of the house.
Part of the business accomplished at Rendezvous 1833 was the formation of a new company. To my knowledge, this company has never appeared in the histories, and for very good reason, too:
Articles of Copartnership and agreement Made and entered into this Twentieth day of July in the year of our Lord one thousand Eight Hundred and thirty three by and between thomas Fitzpatrick Milton G. Sublette John B Jervais James Bridger and Henry Freab associated under the name and furm of the rocky Mountain furr Co of the one part and Edmund T. Christy of the other part
Witness
1 the furm Shall transact business under the name and furm of the rocky Mountain furr C° & Christy and Shall Continue one year after the date hereof—
2 The said rocky Mountain furr Co have furnished a certain amount of Merchandize Horses & Mules &c. amounting tb per Invoice annexed Six thousand Six Hundred and Seven dollars and Eighty two & 1/2 cents besides Twelve Men hired Whose wages are to be paid Jointly.
There are three other articles, providing that RMF be paid in "Beaver furr as it may be caught and Traded for indiscrirninately" at $3.25 a pound; losses and profits to be equally distributed among the parties; RMF and Christy both agreeing to "devote personal Services" to conducting the business.
The reason this hasn’t appeared in accounts of the time is that this document exists in total isolation. Nothing more is ever heard of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company & Christy. When RMF folded, no mention was made of Christy; his partnership was not bought out, his interest not accounted for. An interesting point for speculation, but until more information turns up I’m afraid any speculation must remain somewhat airy.
***
When the returns of the year were tallied up, the emerging picture was not bright. In his letter to Ermatinger, Wyeth gave the following account (Wyeth reports number of packs; further calculations mine):
The, American Fur Company catch amounted to 51 packs. By the time the returning caravans reached St. Louis, beaver there had dropped to a new low; $3.50 a pound. Figure 5,000 lbs @ $3.50=$17,500. They had 160 men to pay off—some of them at the initiated wages beginning to be prevalent—had suffered the usual losses during the season, and had to pay for new supplies. There would be no profit for the Company this year, not from their field operations.
Bom1evi1le’s 22 1/2 packs were worth less than $8,000. In all probability he was unable to pay all his men, much less cover supplies and losses. (Fontenelle to McKenzie: "If he [Bonneville] continues as he has done, $80,000 will not save him.")
Our main interest being RMF, we are pleased to see that their hunt had been slightly better than the others: 61 or 62 packs, say 6,000 pounds, $21,000. If transportation to St. Louis was at the previous rate of 50 cents a pound, this reduces the net to $18,000 on arrival there. Dcduct the $5,000 owed Bill Sublette=$13,000. ..Deduct cost of supplies, roughly $15,000,3 and they are back in debt by $2,000. There were also 55 men to be paid. Bridger and Fraeb lost all their horses to an Aricara band during the year. The same happened to a small party under Black Harris. While we don’t know the number of animals lost, it is sufficient to remember the mountain price of $50-$60 each. The further diminution through handling expenses, interest, and so forth (as. seen in the 1832 catch) pushed the deficit up and up.
By reason of the unknown factors, it isn’t possible to make an exact estimate of RMF’s loss for the season. It could not, have been less than $12,000-$15,000—a very conservative estimate—and all of it went into the books of Sublette & Campbell, drawing interest of from 6 to 8 per cent.
But what the hell; it’s just money. They still had their hair, and the climate was nice (in the summer).
III
Rendezvous 1833 lasted about ten days, from July 15 to 24. Since the greater part of Bob Campbell‘s merchandise had been disposed of to RMF, there was little left for him to do but sell off the remaining whiskey and watch the celebration.
When time came to disperse on the Fall ’33 hunt, the RMF men, like Caesar’s Gaul, were divided into three parts.
Henry Fraeb (and possibly Gervais with him) took about twenty men down the Green into Colorado, probably intending to work southern streams of the Green during the fall of '33, then swing over and come back north through the Colorado Parks for his Spring '34 hunt. He had with him Bill Williams, one of the great legendary figures of the trade. In later years Bill w
as to become the outstanding loner in the mountains; tough, mean, and independent. It was a mountain byword that a man didn’t want to walk in front of Bill Williams in starvin’ times.4
Edmund Christy, the brand-new partner, had a brigade of about twenty-five men. They were off for the west slope of the Rockies, Snake country; possibly down to touch Digger country, by one report. In any event, they expected to winter somewhere along the Snake. (The Company brigade under Drips also moved west across the divide, but there was no recorded conflict this season. They were probably working north of Christy’s men, in the Flathead country.)
The three remaining partners—Milton Sublette, Fitzpatrick, and Bridger—started out from the Green in company with Bob Campbell’s returning supply train. Wyeth was also with this group, which was by far the largest. (Even Bonneville was, for a while, their unseen shadow. The competitive tactics had begun to make him rather nervous and he preferred to keep out of sight as long as possible, marching parallel to the main party.)
Campbell was not taking. the furs back to St. Louis via the Sweetwater-Platte route this year. Instead, he was to descend the Bighorn and Yellowstone to the Missouri, where he would meet his partner Bill Sublette. Bill, in theory, would have set up the Sublette & Campbell posts in competition with the Company, and be preparing their fort at the mouth of the Yellowstone, near McKenzie’s Fort Union.
Fitzpatrick was to accompany Campbell to the Bighorn, where the load of furs could be transferred to bullboats. Fitz, then taking command of the horses for RMF, would work that general area (Crow Country) for his Fall '33 hunt.
The trip was enlivened by mountain sport of several kinds; for one thing, according to Wyeth, the Green River valley was a "Country covered with buifalo." On the second day out one of the hunters fell from his horse while running a bull. The enraged buffalo turned and charged twice—missing both times. The man finally scrambled to his feet, recovered his rifle, and killed the animal; discovering the reason for the inaccurate charges, which was more than a man could reasonably hope for. The bull was blind in one eye, and simple luck had put the hunter on the blind side.